Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over forms and income queries -- volumes of taxation lore.
The day of reckoning was looming, penalties and late fees blooming.
Tax time always seems so gloomy -- can't I put it off once more?

From a sound my hound did flee; a cell phone buzzing mightily --
On the line my CPA breathlessly reminding me.
"All that dough that you did make, the IRS awaits its take.

For each tick that your stocks did rake, a tidy sum is yours no more.
Ten ninety nines, W-fours, W-twos, tax loss selling, write-offs, too.
The Fed and state cry for their due -- more time is needed for this chore!"
(For this call, I'll shell out more.)

While I listened, nearly tearing -- more addendums I was fearing,
every decimal a-rearing dollar signs on my tax form.
Where to find a good deduction... can I write off liposuction?
All my funds bent on destruction, Enron shares down to the floor.
My accountant comes from Cendant. He says Fido's a dependent.
He would make a fine defendant, should this come to something more.
Shameless plug that ruins meter:
Consult TMF Money Advisor when you need her!
Quoth the marketing department, nevermore.

Then before me came a vision -- tall and striped and with a mission
In a moment out of fiction, the man appeared -- The Man! -- was fore.
"The due date passed in days of yore.
Uncle Sam is keeping score."
Said pallid giant -- six feet four.
Quoth the tax man, "Pay me more."

All of my procrastination turned to instant resignation,
At the obvious suggestion that I could postpone no more
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer.
"Foul!" said I. "I need a respite -- from this governed form of despot!"
Quoth the tax man, "Pay me more."

"I'll do the math -- though not my suit -- pay up from my labor's fruit
Skip the lines I'm told are moot, an IRA I'll fund once more."
Quoth the tax man, "Pay me more."

With a click -- the whir of Quicken -- numbers ticked, my stomach sickened
In a blink the screen did flicker, in a flash forms did outpour
To the state, I owed a song. And from the gov'ment... something's wrong.
Nine hundred back? Look hard and long. "Surely, sir, I must owe more."
"Surely, sir, I must owe more."

He stood before my eyes cast down, then sotto voce he did sound
"Tis sad that my job so confounds -- that you should give the run-around.
You get a refund this time 'round." I found his judgment rather sound.
As he walked into the night, I thanked him for that check, all right.
"Next year," cried he, "you'll pay me more!"
Quoth the tax man, ever more.